Davidson
by 90TheGeneral09
Summary: How did Jack Merridew end up at military school? The twins, Sam and Eric, mention Jack was caught doing 80 mph on the highway in a stolen car. But that's not the whole story. NOTE: Based off the 1990 film adaptation of the book. In the 1990 film, Jack, Ralph, and all the others are cadets at an unnamed military school, but they wear the uniforms of Valley Forge Military Academy.
1. Chapter 1- Jack's Escape

**Chapter I- Jack's Escape**

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Jack pulled his jeans back up about his naked waist, zipping them back up and groping around for his shirt. It was dark in the shed; they'd gone here for privacy at Jack's suggestion, the classic "how about we go somewhere quiet?" line. Tall, athletic, and energetic even for his age, Jack hadn't had much difficulty hopping out of his pants and into Megan Baker's. Try as she had to ignore Jack's flirting at school- in the beginning- she'd invited him over soon enough. Jack suppressed a laugh at how easy it'd all been. Girls were going to be putty in his hands soon.

His body hummed with excitement, even now- it had been everything his friend Jacob told him and more.

Jack hoped he could hold himself back better in the future; this first go, exciting as it had been, hadn't lasted long at all.

But while Jack was busy looking for his shirt- and admiring his thin but formidable body in the moonlight- Megan was still sitting on the work bench Jack had pushed her up on, her shorts still down around her ankles and her arms wrapped around her chest, looking cute and ridiculous at the same time. She looked… annoyed. Initially Jack could think of no reason why, but then frustration surged into him.

Girls. They were all the same. You could try and try, but they'd always complain about _something_. But Megan's comment wasn't quite what Jack expected.

"Jack, were you supposed to, you know, finish like that? My friends told me boys have to get out before they finish."

Jack stared at her in the dark. What the-? He hadn't even been thinking about that. He hadn't even given it a second's consideration.

But Megan continued her worry/pout act, so Jack just stopped looking for his shirt- he'd find it eventually, and it was plenty warm out anyway- and turned his full attention to Megan. Getting a coy look on his face, Jack ignored her worrying. He'd heard similar comments before, from his own friends- the truth was he just didn't care. He could have all the little Jack's he wanted; it wasn't like he was paying for it. "If we _do_ have a kid… you wanna name him Jack Jr.?" he asked, flashing his most charming smile.

Before he could say anything else, though, a light flicked on in the shed. Jack's head whipped around, and he saw a large man, still dressed in mechanic's coveralls, standing in the doorway. The man was surprised, yes, even stunned- but he was quickly getting over that. There was no mistaking what that deep-throated growl meant. For Jack, it meant just one thing- it was time to go.

Thinking very fast, Jack bolted for the window and started planning a getaway, moving with surprising speed. He spotted his red t-shirt lying on the other side of the old riding lawnmower, but there was no time for that. The man- a vague sense of recognition told Jack this was his girlfriend's father- was charging for him, bellowing in rage. With the doorway blocked, Jack made a snap decision- jumping backwards and crashing through the shed window. Jack _was_ in the kind of shape needed to execute such a move- he was _not_ experienced enough to know how to do it properly.

He hit the grass hard, and even as he got to his feet he could tell the glass had cut him in a dozen places at least. But the man was hot on his trail- he was yelling at Megan to get her damn clothes back on, and something about going to kill that scrawny little excuse for a boyfriend. For a moment, even as he started to flee across the darkened backyard, Jack felt suddenly indignant. Scrawny? He wasn't scrawny! He was one of the strongest boys in his class! But then again, being fifteen, his arms looked like Megan's dad's pinkie fingers. Point taken. Jack ran faster.

Fear has a way of making possible acts that could never be done without the aid of adrenaline, or that the calm, logical mind would never allow. Jack bolted across the dark backyard with a speed that even he hadn't known was possible. In just moments he was closing in on the chain-link fence. No time to open the gate- or even check of it had a lock. Jack grabbed the top of the fence and heaved himself over, his feet narrowly missing smacking into the gate. Rolling on the grass and quickly getting to his feet, Jack fled across the front yard; he could tell from the sounds behind him that his pursuer was not quite so agile, and had likely bungled whatever attempt he'd made to follow Jack over the gate. Passing the big oak tree that dominated the center of the front yard, Jack paused, noticing for the first time the more than half-a-dozen cuts he'd given his back, chest and shoulders. The bleeding wasn't too bad, and in any case, there just wasn't time.

Breathing hard, Jack searched for an escape route. He had no shoes, no shirt, and with all these cuts and a sweaty face, people were not just going to let him walk all the way home without asking questions.

Then a light came on- not in Jack's head, but two houses down the street. It was a dome light inside the just-arrived pizza boy's car. An '85 Plymouth- Jack knew because it was close to the end of the Fury line. That name had died just a couple years later. He'd always fantasized about stealing one, hearing that V8 roar because HE, Jack, told it to… and now was the time.

No longer even concerned with Megan's enraged father, Jack sprinted down the driveway of Megan's house, into the side of the street, and threw himself flat just a few feet short of the car. Suppressing an urge to shout out a good oath as the bits of gravel and broken-up pavement scratched and cut at him, Jack glanced up and saw the pizza guy- some dude in his 20's at oldest- walking up to the door. The Plymouth's headlights were on, the engine was running- like many pizza boys accustomed to the business of making a delivery and hopping back in to make the next one, this one had even left the driver's door ajar. Jack crawled up to the Plymouth, slipped inside, swung the door shut… and suddenly realised he had no idea how to shift the car into gear.

The control was on the steering wheel column, he knew that- you moved it up and down; Jack had seen adults in so many cars and trucks with automatics do that for years. But how? He pulled up and down, tried both ways again and again, yet the stalk refused to move. Fear raced through Jack; his hands became shiny with sweat. He wasn't going to get his butt kicked by some big daddy, and he wasn't going to jail either. Right now he could already tell he was facing both.

Megan's dad was out in the yard, back up the street two houses, looking around…

The pizza boy was still at the door, but the boxes had been turned over to the house's owner and the change was in his hand…

Then Megan's dad happened to glance down the street. A shout and suddenly the pizza boy's head also turned in the Plymouth's direction… and right to the half-naked fifteen-year-old sitting behind the wheel.

The pizza boy clearly liked his car; certainly enough he didn't want to part with it just yet. "Hey! Hey, kid! Get outta my car, man!" he shouted, turning and starting to run down the walk to the car. He did so fast enough, though, that his feet had trouble keeping up with him. He tripped, swearing as he landed flat on his ass. Megan's dad had no such trouble, though; he was on his way down the street in a big hurry. Jack's heart pounded in his chest- he had just seconds to figure this out, get it right and get going, or he'd be done. In a panic, he floored the accelerator. The Plymouth's V8 roared, but the car went absolutely nowhere. Almost completely losing it now, Jack swore and smacked the shifter stalk.

It moved.

Jack noticed he'd been striking the shifter towards himself- and it had moved. Suddenly realising what he needed to do, Jack grabbed the shifter stalk, pulled it towards himself slightly, and shifted it up until the little box on the gauges display clicked into place over "D". Then he swung the wheel hard to the left and pulled out, tires screaming as they tried to get traction. The Plymouth shot out from the curb and across the street- it was a sloppy U-turn, and Jack was lucky the lawn of an elementary school was all that he ended up driving over. Bumping over so many lumps of dirt and tufts of grass, Jack overcompensated again, steering clumsily back out into the street. Hitting the accelerator pedal hard again, Jack sped away from the house, making a wide, hard right as he reached a corner. Flooring it, he completed his getaway- or so he believed. Jack, full of the thrill of escape, the thrill of success, never thought to look back and notice as Megan's dad reached the place two houses down the street, and together with the pizza boy rushed inside to phone the police.


	2. Chapter 2- Interception

**Chapter II- Interception**

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Once out on the road, Jack quickly realized he had no idea what he was doing. He turned too slow or too fast; he stopped just the same way. He received many honks, dirty looks and glares, but so far his luck had held.

No cops.

His house was an hour's walk away, much less by car. But the journey was now made much more complex by the very mode of transport Jack had chosen- he was driving a stolen car.

Rolling the window down and propping one bare arm up, Jack did his best to effect a casual manner, acting just as nonchalant as he could. It was summer, after all, and he was hardly the only half-naked teenager driving a car somewhere. Some experimenting with the controls soon had Jack aware, if crudely, of the essentials- turn signals, brake and gas pedal, gear shifter and so on. Little else was important, and the windows were hand cranks. That was another thing Jack already knew.

As he made his way down the road, surrounded by plenty of cars but- thankfully- no cops, Jack began to relax for real. At one point, he even thumped the steering wheel, whooping with glee at his success. He'd just done two of the most esteemed acts any teenage boy could aspire to- his first with a girl, and his first drive in a car! And on top of that, he'd stolen the car, too. That was sure to give him one hell of a story to tell in school on Monday. What frustrated Jack was the thought, the realization, that few of his friends were gonna believe it. This was just too incredible, even for the well-known daredevil style of Jack.

As he passed through one suburban intersection and headed for the next, Jack realised he could get out into the country- his parents lived close to the county border- and ditch the car way out there somewhere. Then he could just walk back. As he took a turn to start heading towards the interstate, Jack laughed at his own cleverness. This was just too damn easy.

A sudden flashing of colored lights interrupted his thinking as Jack saw the interstate entrance turn coming into view. Red and blue… shit. Jack glanced back, and sure enough it was his local county police, come to pay him a visit. Immediately, the urge surged into him- run for it. Just stomp the accelerator and run. But something else told him… not yet. Not just yet.

So Jack played it safe, obeying the command of the pissed-off sheriff's deputy to pull the car over now, I'm not talking to hear my own voice. He slowed, pulling over to the side in the interstate turn-lane. Jack waited for the county Dodge to stop, waited for the cop to get out of his own car… and then floored it. The Plymouth roared and took off down the pavement, chunks of blacktop and gravel spraying from the rear wheels. Jack yelled with excitement as adrenaline rushed through him and the car tore through the exit lane and onto the highway. He'd done it again.

This time, though, they weren't long in following. The county police car was soon joined by another, and both of them came flying up onto the interstate through the same exit Jack had taken, less than a minute after his second getaway. For a time, it looked like Jack still had a chance- maybe to find a quick exit ramp and disappear for a while. But his luck ran out when he passed a state trooper's Chevrolet at the side of the road, and the trooper, bored after hours of sitting but still holding his radar gun, clocked him at over seventy miles an hour.

In a fifty-five.

When the state police cruiser took off after him, Jack started noticing the traffic around him parting like the Red Sea. He'd been seen. Tromping the gas pedal, Jack willed the Plymouth to not just to faster- he wanted it to fly. The car did its best, taking him up to the fastest speed its speedometer even mentioned- 85 miles an hour. Going much faster than any of the other cars now, Jack had to swerve many times to avoid slamming into someone. The Plymouth's suspension was a little too loose, a little too soft- the car wallowed about, and Jack's sloppy driving did him no favors. He managed to outmaneuver the police for a full ten minutes, but his ability to outrun them didn't last as long- twelve minutes into the chase, a state trooper's car caught up to him and rammed the Plymouth's rear end from the side. Jack had seen it on TV a few times- classic PIT Maneuver. He tried to compensate, tried to take back control of the maroon Plymouth, and failed miserably. The Plymouth not only slewed, it rolled- and ended up doing so at almost 90 miles per hour.

What exactly happened next Jack could never do well at remembering. All he knew was that suddenly, with a scream of rubber that seemed to drown out the world, Jack's stolen Plymouth was suddenly going sideways. Momentum wanted it to keep going forward- the fact that Chrysler Corporation had never, ever designed a Plymouth to drive sideways would not allow.

The car rolled. Jack knew that much. It rolled and rolled, and Jack was mercilessly thrown about inside the car- he'd never bothered to hook up his seatbelt, and a trooper later would comment it was a miracle he hadn't been ejected from the car. Steel bent, glass shattered, and Jack was showered with tiny pieces of the car's windshield as the safety glass broke. Eventually, though, the crashing and banging slowed… then stopped. Jack found the car to have stopped upside down, and he- incredibly- was now quite bruised, but not dead. A sharp pain in his side made him wonder, though- had he bruised his ribs or something? He hurt all over, actually… and the numerous flashing lights all around could only mean one thing. As he crawled out of the flipped-over Plymouth and staggered to his feet, Jack found himself staring straight into the blinding flashlight of one state trooper- and into the barrel of another's pistol.

Jack grimaced and raised a hand to shield his eyes. Looking at the sweaty, grimy kid with more cuts and bruises than he'd seen in a while, the one trooper laughed grimly as he grabbed Jack's wrist, expertly spun him around, and cuffed him. "Sorry, kid. Fun's over." The trooper said.

"_Fuck you_!" Jack spat, struggling defiantly as they started to move him towards one of the cars.

"Careful, kid," one of the troopers said, "The more you try to get out of those cuffs, the tighter they'll get."

The other added, "He's got to have some of the tiniest wrists we've put these on, though."

The first trooper considered. "Yeah, go on and struggle, kid. Makes our job easier once those handcuffs are nice and tight."

"Fuck your mom! I fucked your mom!" Jack yelled, pissed off and humiliated in defeat.

The troopers laughed as one of them opened the rear door of the cruiser and unceremoniously shoved him inside.

Jack sat up and immediately worked his hands toward one of the door handles, but nothing happened. Noticing what he was doing, the trooper getting in the driver's seat turned around and faced him. "_Still_ trying to get away?" he said, sounding- and looking- half-amazed. "It's no good, I'm telling you. Those doors don't open from the inside."

"You got quite an attitude, kid." The one in the passenger seat said. As they got going, the state police car passed the Plymouth Jack had rolled- he hadn't just wrecked it; he'd destroyed it. Jack suppressed a smile- he'd really outdone himself tonight. Part of him really didn't care what happened next- what were they gonna do, lock him up in the county jail for a night or two again?

The trooper riding in the passenger seat spoke again. "What's your name, kid? Not like you got your driver's license. You've dug a nice, big hole for yourself tonight, and somebody's gonna have to call your parents and let 'em know about it."

Jack flashed a grin. "I'm the kid that fucked your mom, remember?"

The trooper's face darkened. "Just keep making it worse for yourself, why don't you? Give us your damn name, kid."

Finally, Jack shrugged. What was the harm in telling them? It _would_ get him out of the cell he was headed for a little faster, and in any case, part of Jack _wanted_ these guys to know who'd led them on a chase he knew they'd all remember for years. So he told them.

"Jack."

"Jack _what_?"

"Jack Merridew."


	3. Chapter 3- A New Direction

**Chapter III- A New Direction**

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**A/N: I had originally planned to end this story at Chapter II, but after thinking about it, I realised it left a little too much unexplained. Namely, the one-word title of the story. So I wrote this third chapter, bringing this prologue of the 1990 Jack Merridew to a close.**

* * *

It turned out Jack stayed in jail for exactly a week. His father, a long-time friend of the chief judge for the county, privately asked that his son be kept there for a little while longer than he knew his son would expect. Jack's surprise was soon replaced by resentment. He'd always loved gloating at school, especially when rubbing it in to some kid he was pushing around, about how rich his dad was. How he'd always bail him out, always give Jack what he wanted in the end. This he hadn't bargained on.

But after a few days of nothing, he settled in to the routine. Jack even started to mend his manners a bit- by his fourth day in jail he had the sheriff's deputy who brought food to his cell calling him by name. Jack also got along well with each of his cell-mates; many of them were friends of his anyway; teenage boys in Camden County who got arrested with any frequency tended to know each other.

Finally, when Jack's father got the 'good behavior' report he'd been waiting for from the sheriff, he came and picked Jack up. Cleaned up and with his cuts and bruises reduced to a few scars, Jack was all but openly beaming under his messy, short-cut blonde hair when the deputies brought them out. After apologizing to his parents at home and settling in to the routine of summer life again, Jack began to feel confident again. Confident that he'd managed to bury his latest screwup effectively; confident that his parents would again forgive and again, in time, forget.

Jack even managed to forget a little himself; the first Sunday he spent at home after being released, Jack played a game of hide-and-seek in the backyard with his little brother. Michael, staggering about on his chubby toddler's legs, squealed with delight as Jack darted from place to place, making a showy and valiant effort to escape his brother's pursuit. They were much alike, even sharing the same silvery-blonde hair. As Jack picked up his brother and spun him around after being 'captured' in the garden, he smiled. Michael didn't think anything less than the world of him. Michael never judged, never became stern or sanctimonious towards the lawless, rebellious Jack. He just loved Jack, for all that he was and wasn't. It was a pure, simple loyalty that Jack didn't see in many people beyond ages two or three. And it was easily the biggest reason Jack, a person who loved to party but cared little for anyone around him, made an exception for his baby brother. Michael meant something to him, even if nobody else did.

Jack was so content that Sunday afternoon, as a matter of fact, that he didn't even notice the oddity of mail being on the table when no mail came that day. Quickly rifling through what was there, Jack figured it was from yesterday. Noticing something unusual- an old, red-and-white building with brick walls and tall columns at its front on the picture he could see- Jack pulled that piece of mail out of the pile.

What the hell?

"Davidson _Military_ School?" Jack wondered aloud, halfway to laughing at the very idea. Jack Merridew, go to military school? No way was _that_ happening. No four walls could hold him, and certainly not some boarding school with guns that didn't work and fancy uniforms. Jack considered for a moment. Girls _did_ dig those army uniforms…

No. No, even that wasn't worth all the inconvenience. Besides, Jack reminded himself with a smirk, he'd already proven he didn't need a uniform to get girls.

Footsteps coming down the hallway- one of Jack's favourite things about nearly the whole Merridew household having hardwood floors was the fact that you could hear everybody coming. They never did know how to walk quietly enough.

Jack's father, Charles Merridew, came into the kitchen, followed moments later by Susan Merridew, Jack's mother. Charles was a tall, well-built man, who despite his thriving business career, still found time to look after his family… even, perhaps especially, his wayward son. Susan Merridew was the keeper of the household; old-fashioned as that idea was coming to be viewed as, Susan believed it was the best method for a stable home. Govern alongside the husband, yes, but let him take the lead in moments where a harsher kind of justice was required. This, she knew, was one of those moments.

Busy gnawing at a piece of toast and ruffling Michael's hair as Michael threw his piece- along with a good helping of jam- across the room, Jack never noticed any of the subtle signs that something was happening. Or about to happen.

Holding up the DMS brochure, Jack looked at his dad as he walked over to the fridge. "Something for Michael, hey, Dad?"

Jack's dad took his time getting some orange juice and sliced ham out of the refrigerator. He knew what he was going to have to say anytime now, and he knew Jack wasn't going to like it. But to hell with it- Jack should have considered how much his parents weren't going to like having to pay for a destroyed 1985 Plymouth Gran Fury, plus $500 bail charges. That part he should have considered. Yes, indeed.

Jack sensed something was a little off when his dad turned around. The slight tension in his face, the fact that he didn't respond to Jack's joke… what was going on here?

He wasn't waiting long.

"No, Jack… I'm afraid that's not for Michael. That's for you."

Jack stared. _What_?

"They've got a summer program starting in July. You're going to that, and you've got a year at Davidson ahead of you in the fall."

"But- but- today's June 27th!" Jack almost screamed, jumping up so suddenly his little brother exclaimed in surprise.

The elder Merridew's both nodded. Jack's father went on with deliberate calm, "You've still got a couple days left. Enjoy them, because that stunt you pulled over at Megan's house just bought you a whole year at military school."

Jack stood there in the kitchen with his fists clenched, nearly trembling with impotent, useless rage. "That's not fair!" Jack shouted.

"Actually, it IS!" Mr. Merridew shouted back, ignoring the surprised wail of Michael at the noise. "You have any idea how stupid that was of you? You got caught having sex with a girl whose father had _told_ you to stop seeing his daughter; you stole a car, wrecked it, and in the process nearly _killed_ yourself. Do you have _any idea_ how serious this is?"

"Life isn't a game like you think it is, Jack." Mr. Merridew said, quieting down again. He no longer sounded, or even felt angry. He just couldn't understand why his son wouldn't quit taking every dare someone held in front of his face, and looking at rules and laws as something he had a duty to defy. He added, finally, "You're going on July 1st, Jack. I'm not hearing any argument about it."

Jack sat back down. Michael made a low sobbing noise, upset but having no idea why. Jack held his brother, and after cleaning up the thrown toast made him another piece, and sat out in the backyard again. Michael nibbled at the toast, but the joy had gone out of the afternoon. Michael Merridew was young; there was a lot he didn't know, and couldn't understand. But even he could tell his brother was very bothered by something. Jack sat on the back porch in silence, his mind miles away with dark, troubled thoughts. Freedom. He was losing his freedom… and who knew how long it would be before he saw his little brother again. A few tears found their way down his cheeks; rather than wipe them away, Jack furiously blinked and pretended they weren't there.

"Wompers!" Michael cried, suddenly hugging his brother's middle just as tight as he could. He didn't know what was bothering Jack; only that he wanted his big brother to not be bothered by it anymore.

Taken by surprise, Jack had to duck his head so no one could see him silently burst into tears. Touched by his brother's gesture, Jack hugged him back. When he looked up, though, staring into the gradually setting sun, his ice-blue eyes were hard. Jack could be mean and cold when he wanted to be, and he knew there would be some rough types at Davidson. If he was going to get by there- not just survive, but excel- Jack knew he'd need to be hard. He'd have to be mean. It was his sensitive side, the part of him that _did_ care, even if for only a few things and people, that he'd have to hide the most.

Davidson Military School… Jack turned over the upsides and downsides in his mind, over and over again. By the time he went to bed that night, Jack had made up his mind. Whatever happened, however long he went there, Jack would do what he always did- push hard and shove harder. Take what he could, as often as he could take it, and give back only what he wanted to.

And if the chance ever came to escape life at that school, at the first opportunity he got to ditch that school and its stupid uniforms for good… Jack was gonna take it. And God help anyone who got in his way.


End file.
